Chapter Eleven ABBIE
I’m tucking my brother’s dog tags under my shirt when I run into Tricks in the hallway outside Ark’s office. She has two cups of coffee in her hands and immediately presses one into mine. “Wings said you like it black, which is disgusting, but also completely fine, because I don’t judge.”
I grin at her as I take a sip. “Your brother is all the sweetness I need in my life.”
“Blech.” She wrinkles her button nose. “But also, totally adorable.”
I shrug, and she drains her cup, leading me into the kitchen to pop it in the dishwasher.
I take a little more notice of my surroundings this time, and realize it has a full commercial setup with a long flat-top grill, two deep fryers, a wall of ovens, and a couple of six-burner ranges.
“This is Glory’s domain, of course,” she says, waving to the alpha who is elbow-deep in dough and beaming in our direction.
“She has a permanent staff of three, but we all pitch in when needed.”
“It’s a lot nicer than the old kitchen,” I note as she grabs two muffins off a cooling rack and hands me one.
It’s apple and cinnamon, and I groan as I take a bite.
“I used to sneak in there with Wings for leftovers, and one time the latch on the walk-in cooler got stuck and we were popsicles by the time Glory found us.”
“I remember,” she laughs, leading me back into the hallway. “You both had blue lips for a week. I thought it looked so cool, I kept sucking ice cubes until Mom stopped me.”
I smile at the memory, because as terrifying as it was to be trapped, Wings had wrapped himself around me to conserve body heat, and we’d shared our first kiss.
Our teeth were chattering so badly I nearly bit his tongue, but Wings declared it the best first kiss ever.
I only realize I’m rubbing the cold place in my chest when Tricks gives me a curious look.
“Heartburn,” I murmur, cramming the rest of the muffin in my mouth before she can take it off me.
I’m wiping crumbs off my fingers when we turn the corner and enter the bar.
Déjà vu descends for a moment, and my feet grind to a stop.
This was always the adults’ territory in the old clubhouse, and wandering in here at the wrong time never ended well.
We snuck drinks, like teenagers everywhere, but we also saw things that would shock the hell out of most kids, and as I take in the wall of gleaming liquor bottles, I get a familiar tight feeling in my belly.
Just as Glory’s moods were our early warning system, the scents coming from the bar could stop us in our tracks.
Blood meant a fight was underway, omega slick meant clothes were coming off, and the pungent stink of alpha rut meant run for the nearest locked door…
“Hey,” Tricks says softly, touching my arm. “It’s okay. I just wanted to show you the layout so you can find your way around.”
“Yeah. Thanks.” I clear my throat and, setting my coffee cup on a high-top table, look around quickly.
The mahogany bar runs the full length of the wall and is lined with matching stools, all of which are currently empty.
There are two felt-topped pool tables at the far end of the room, along with a jukebox and a corner set up for board games.
The air smells like furniture polish and leather, and everything looks clean and new.
It’s not hard to picture myself chilling here with Wings and Pitt on a Friday night, but I shake my head.
“This looks so tame for a biker bar.” No blood-stained carpet, no duct tape on the furniture, and no obvious gouges out of the bar top.
In fact, if you ignore the Iron Flyers’ emblem and Harley Davidson signs on the wall, it could pass for a wine bar in a nicer part of town. “Where is everybody?”
“Ark doesn’t open the bar until three.” Tricks smiles at my obvious surprise. “Everyone works in the club, and even on days off, there’s no alcohol until opening time. Some people grumble about it, but there are a lot less fights this way.”
“That’s amazing,” I turn to look at the armchairs and sofas, all neatly arranged around matching coffee tables.
In the old club, they were the territory of either the sweetbutts or the old ladies, and even as teenagers we were warned not to approach them unless we were invited.
“Who’s the current sweetbutt wrangler?” I smile at Tricks’ sideways glance.
“I’m not planning on signing up, if that’s what you’re wondering.
I just need to let her know that certain members are off-limits now. ”
“Ooh, feeling territorial?”
I smirk at her elbow in my ribs. “When it comes to your brother, I’m a dog with a very juicy bone.”
Tricks pulls another grossed out face, but it quickly morphs into a sly grin. “Pitt’s been wafting your scents around all morning, so I’m pretty sure most of the club have got that message by now.”
I can’t hide my blush, because despite our very thorough shower last night, I can still smell them on my skin. “Well, it’s just polite to check in.” Plus, it will stop me from putting the first sweetbutt on her ass when she makes a move on one of my guys.
My guys… I let that ruminate for a moment before it settles, chasing away some of the chill in my chest. Wings has always been mine, and Pitt is definitely showing some potential.
“To be honest, there aren’t all that many sweetbutts anymore. It’s kind of a family-friendly club now.” Tricks shrugs and then leads me over to an external door. “But on to the important stuff. Follow me!”
I smile at the sudden pep in her stride as we cross the quad, skirting the swimming pool and heading towards a row of buildings at the back.
There’s a bunch of kids playing in what I assume is the daycare Patch mentioned, and another room set up with yoga mats and a couple of Pilates machines.
She leads me to the third room, and we walk into the middle of what looks like a crafting party.
Four women sit at a long work bench, sewing machines and glue guns busily at work.
Swaths of fabric surround them in every shade and texture, and there are big plastic tubs full of sequins, feathers, rhinestones, ribbons, and lace.
Behind them are clothing racks of leather and denim vests, jackets, and jeans, in every shape and size.
“Welcome to the Iron Flyers’ merch store!” Tricks declares, striking a pose. “We specialize in denim and leather, obviously, and we send out about a hundred orders a week.”
“Wow. That’s so impressive, Tricks.” Like Wings, she was always toting a sketchpad around as a kid, but while her brother was dreaming up bike designs and tattoo art, Tricks was drawing outfits like the one she’s wearing today.
“It keeps us out of mischief,” a familiar voice says, and I blink as I realize it’s Meg, Tricks’ mom.
Tears pinch the back of my eyes at the sight of her familiar smile, as pretty as her daughter’s and as warm as her son’s.
She was never a big hugger, but she embraces me now, and I suck in a lungful of her delicate beta scent.
It always reminded me of fresh laundry, and in the chaos of the old clubhouse, it was a balm to my overstimulated senses.
“Thank you for looking after my dove,” she whispers, kissing my cheek.
“He only started to smile again when he found you.” I nod, too choked up to reply, and she draws me over to the work bench.
“Pull up a stool, hun.” When I’m settled next to her, she reaches into one of the tubs and dumps a pile of feathers in front of me.
“You can work your magic on the feather embellishments.”
I cringe as I quickly wipe my cheek with my sleeve. “Oh, God. Just so you know, I flunked Home Ec.”
“It’s easy peasy,” she assures me, “but you can just sit and gossip with us, if you like.”
I nod, but as the women work, I find my fingers creeping towards the pile of feathers.
The vibrant colors remind me of the color scheme in our suite, and I twirl a big flame red feather until Meg hands me a glue gun.
“Grab a base,” she tells me, pointing to a pile of velvet squares, “and go crazy. There’s no right or wrong, hun. ”
“Not what Mrs. Clark said when I burned the bottom out of her frypan.”
“Luckily, this isn’t high school,” another woman says on my other side. “Here we learn with love.”
It’s the last thing I expect to hear out of the mouth of an alpha with a black fauxhawk and the road name Blaze on her cut, but she just smiles at me and glues a patch of sequins on a denim skirt.
“Meg said you’re a therapist,” she says, looking at me curiously.
“Are you going to be working in the refuge center?”
I blink, surprised as always by how fast gossip spreads in a clubhouse. “I’m not sure, to be honest. I have a job at a clinic downtown, though.”
“We heard.” Meg squeezes my arm. “Wings is so proud of you, hun.”
“I’m pretty proud of him, too.”
As I lean forward to grab another feather, my brother’s dog tags spill out of my shirt, almost tangling with the glue gun. Tricks stops flicking through her notebook, her eyes growing wide. “Oh.”
I grimace at her shocked expression. “I’ve fucked up these feathers, haven’t I? I knew this big red one was too much. Should I try to peel it off, or just cover it in sequins?”
Seriously, all guns have to be handled with care, but crafting ones most of all.
“No, I just… It’s fine, Abbie. You’re doing great.” She gives me a quick smile. “It’s just that you’re wearing…”
“Abbie,” Meg interrupts her suddenly, grabbing my wrist. “Did you know that Callie came to us that way? Through the refuge center, I mean.”